Making Plans
by zunarj5
Summary: This is a continuation of the highly underrated tv movie 1994 Baker Street: Sherlock Holmes Returns, in which Holmes is a real person who moves to the States to avoid Moriarty's henchman, cryogenically freezes himself, and is discovered by San Francisco doctor Amy Winslow who takes him in. This drabble/preamble documents the events following the conclusion of the tv movie.


It had only been a month since Sherlock Holmes, the great and apparently nonfictional, detective, had entered my life. Already he had solved a case regarding a suspecting cheerleader which lead us to a ring of significant corruption. Presently, we sat together in my living room. I was writing as I often do after a long day at work at the hospital and Holmes was absorbed in a book. I looked up from time to time to observe his chiseled features.

"Most ingenious," Holmes said after he had finished reading Doyle's The Six Napoleons. "He had a talent for fabricating the truth," he added after tossing the book down on a nearby table, "It would be interesting to know what became of the pearl." He was very thoughtful and when I asked, he explained how he was consulted about the Black Pearl of Borgias shortly before his hibernation.

"I shall investigate its whereabouts. I may have Zapper assist me."

"Well, just don't get involved in the criminal underworld too deeply," I said with a gesture.

"One must immerse oneself in the criminal underworld to understand it and to root out evil," Holmes philosophized, "And I am sure that with your companionship I will be in safe hands."

"Meaning I can be your on-call surgeon if you get into any scraps, and your landlady, and your biographer."

"Yes, well, after you have christened our most recent case 'The Adventure of the Crimson Cheerleader,' I may put pen to paper myself."

"You don't have the patience for that, as we both know." I said, looking directly at him, then, my mind caught up with me, "And, did you just say it was our case?"

"Yes, it was. You were a great help to me, your knowledge of sport attire was particularly helpful in cracking the nut that is American football."

"Glad I could be of assistance," I remarked, hoping he'd pick up on the fact that I thought he used people, especially me. He may be the great detective but he is still a man. Our conversation had reached a comfortable lull and we sat contented, the distance echos of our voices in our minds.

"Why did you never marry?" Holmes asked me thoughtfully. I wanted to respond 'I thought you knew everything,' but bit my tongue and decided to be honest.

"I guess I don't completely believe in marriage. Max never did. He's not the settling down type. Why do you ask?"

"I'm gathering data to determine the inner workings of the female mind."

"Will you write a monograph on it?" I tried to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

"Perhaps," he said, putting his fingers in a pyramid shape, "If I collect enough information."

"Any conclusions?"

"It is profitless to theorize –"

"Without enough data, yes I know," I said, nodding deeply. He inhaled softly and slowly through his nose. I watched his chest rise and fall half a dozen times and then he parted his lips to speak.

"I have observed you quite extensively, but I don't consider you a typical example of a woman."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You're not the frivolous kind of female one sees so much of." I kept my mouth tightly shut, but then I spoke up.

"Men's misconceptions of women don't apply to your time any more than mine."

"I see that there is an element of truth in that."

"It's more than an element. And furthermore I think it would do you good to read up on feminism and psychology."

"Assuredly." We both returned to silence. I went back a few spaces.

"So, you don't think I'm frivolous. Was that another compliment?"

"Judging by your high estimation of women, I'd yes."

Only he could work an insult into a compliment. Still, I was flattered. We looked into eachother's eyes for a nanosecond, but I didn't verbalize my sentiments. He was changing his ideas. He may be stubborn and 90 years out of date, but he can't be unaffected by things he learned in the modern age. At least, I hoped so.

"Perhaps you could take me through some of your modern ideas of women."

"I've been doing that."

"To what effect?"

"Very little, but it's better than nothing," I said with goodnatured impudence.

"You could furnish me with some points of importance before I consult my next client." he said, fighting a smile.

"You yourself believe that one should never assume and yet when you met me you assumed I was a nurse."

"That is because in my time women were not doctors."

"Then who was Elizabeth Garrett Anderson?"

"She was a rare case. Perhaps I could have anticipated such advances in society."

"You know what, rule of thumb; women do men's jobs."

"I understand. I will make a concerted effort not to assume women are incapable of performing men's jobs." I was contented with his change of mind and inhaled deeply, not saying anything more on the subject. But then he added something I rather hoped he would.

"There was one woman," he said softly, looking down at his folded hands, "whom Doyle has immortalized, who would have been quite adept at executing the professions of men."

"Oh?" I said, pretending not to visualize the portrait I discovered in his trunk when he first came to stay with me. The woman in the picture was quite beautiful, her hair softly gathered above her head and her delicate features were very striking. It was easy to see why Holmes would have fallen for her. But it was her mind that he loved, if the stories were anything to go by. And perhaps Holmes wasn't the cold calculating machine that Doyle's readers often took him for. I hoped it was poetic licence that exaggerated this quality in Holmes.

"She had a remarkable brain, a man's mind – I do beg your pardon. She could have been a statesman, a barrister. It is a shame I did not know her for longer."

"What happened to her? After her marriage I mean."

"She was always one step ahead of me. And in a way, I did not particularly want to know. I could have pursued her, but there would have been no point to it."

"Meaning she couldn't be yours?"

"My dear Winslow, a woman like that cannot belong to anyone."

"No women belong to anyone."

"I am beginning to see that," he said with true earnestness as he looked up at me.

"But you would still like to know?"

"One is curious," Holmes said, returning to a meditative state. I suddenly resolved to embark on my own mission; to find what happened to the object of his admiration he lost so long ago.


End file.
